Camaraderie
by MMBC
Summary: There was a red spider lily blooming upon his white chest, and it was dark and it was beautiful. For he who was young and sweet and bright, is now gone from this filthy world. /AU with Furuichi dead in the fight with Takamiya. Rating for language, blood, gore and dark theme.


He watched the stream of weeping humans and smiled. Foolish humans. They never knew the value of what they had until they had lost it. Filthy humans that couldn't even differentiate a gem from a pebble don't deserve to even touch the gem, much less hold it amongst themselves. He detested those humans. They deserved this. They nearly drove a young man to his suicide, and then they couldn't even save him when he needed them the most. Couldn't at least tell him that he meant something to them. It was _they_ who should have…

He turned to look at the only man who shed no tear even as his heart seemed to have frozen into eternal ice. Hell, even _he_ felt like that too, he had to admit. How could he not when the only thing that caught his eyes, again and again much though he had tried to avert his gaze, was that one pale face looking up from the bed of bleeding spider lily?

He remembered how he was forcibly pulled out of the body he was possessing and sent right back to where he was. It felt as though there was a bucket of ice cold water dumped upon his head in that instant, when he realised that again, he had failed to accomplish a task he had willingly embarked upon. He was rather fond of the human, he realised. Liked him, even. He had never met anyone so head-strong despite their puny physique. He remembered running like a mad man towards the quack doctor's house and almost begged them for help. Perhaps he should have been ashamed of himself.

He remembered how powerless he had been. It was perhaps first and foremost his fault that such a bright young man had his future taken away from him. Despite being a pathetic human being, despite being picked on and treated like trash by every single one of those vermins who couldn't even hold a candle to him, the boy had had so much potential. Maybe he really could have become a tactician. When that time comes, maybe he could refer him to the General, even.

Holding in a breath, he felt his eyes wander off on their own again, before landing on the still form. Dressed in white, the boy really stood out against the bed of red flowers. They had been a gift from the General himself, but they just resembled blood so much that his eyes ached. It was the blood that stained the ground, pooling underneath the still body that once housed such immense power.

He remembered that day so clearly he wished he could forget. There was blood everywhere, and it was the perfect picture of Hell, and it broke his heart. Someone was holding onto the body and screaming nonsense; he was too numbed to realise who that was. But as he stood there, letting it all wash over his being, he felt like he had committed the biggest failure in his goddamned life. There was red, red, red, so much red. He had wanted to lash out at someone, but the wailing kept coming. The boy's pale body was being shook, and from the gaping hole in his chest still more blood was pouring out, wetting the hands holding him, and spurting in arcs that landed into rivulets down a face already wet with tears. He wanted to maul that face, but it was all so red, so red, it hurt his eyes.

The hesitant hand on his shoulder woke him from this terrible reminiscence that kept haunting him day and night.

'Heca-chan?' Agiel's voice sounded like it was from a place far, far away, 'are you crying?'

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The gentle hand on his shoulder had been almost unable to bring him out of his dreadful stupor.

'Oga?' Kunieda, he took in a deep breath and reminded himself, 'are you crying?'

Was he crying? He felt like crying. But his eyes were too dry they hurt. It was so white, his best friend's – were they still best friends now? – hair. He, too, was white. He remembered the other boy had been a little on the pale side, but never this white. It was too sick, too deadly, whereas he had been livelier than the sun around this shithole that was Ishiyama. Once, he had been refreshing like a snowflake. And now, he resembled a white sheet stained in blood. His own blood.

Did that bastard Behemoth want a fight, sending in such horrid flowers?

He remembered that night. He wished he could forget it, but he couldn't, so he relived it again, and again, and again inside his head, until he felt like losing himself to the nightmare. It had been so dark. He had never been afraid of the dark before, but as he rushed into the building, the foreboding darkness had sent shivers along his heart. He remembered the white standing out against the dark and the red painting the walls. It could have been beautiful but for the stains of blood.

He had felt like retching. It had been a desperate fight, and he really gave it his all. He fought like he never did. He wished he could have suddenly powered up like he did the previous times, but no matter how hard he pushed, he just couldn't win.

There was a gaping hole where his heart had been. He saw the lifeless body falling, and falling, as though he was falling through an eternity, and he reached his hand out to catch the boy, but he never made it. The demon was laughing at them, and he wanted to wrench her heart out from her chest cavity like how she did it with his precious, precious friend.

Somehow, he had lost the fight. The other times, he could have made up for it by training till he vomited blood. This time, though, he lost something that could never be retrieved.

He cried so hard his tears turned red.

He screamed the night away until he couldn't scream anymore.

He clutched onto the cold, and white, white body, until they pried his bloody hands away at daybreak.

He beat himself up with the 'if onlys'. If only he had never called his best friend an idiot, a pervert, a lolicon. If only he had kept a closer eye on him, he who was driven to death by their foolishness. If only he had told him how much he meant to a lonely boy who would undoubtedly turn into a mindless thug but for the last ray of light holding him back from plunging into hell. If only he had held him tight and never let go after the fucking war started. Maybe then, then, he wouldn't have left. A million 'if onlys' couldn't make up for it now, and it was so white, his best friend blending into the light that he could never reach.

He lifted his listless eyes to see the stream of people gathering around the coffin. He hated them all, the bastards who couldn't do anything useful once in a while. They hurt him, too, and he wanted to bash everyone's head in until they all joined _him_ to keep him company. But the child on his back held onto his hair, so he bit his tongue and held back his mindless rage. He hated himself most of all, he who had failed his beloved. Perhaps it was he who should have been in a coffin instead.

There was wetness on his face, yet his hand wouldn't lift for him, but that was just as well. His body was so heavy, and he wanted to rest. What was the point of fighting anymore, anyway? His life had always revolved around two things, and now that one was gone due to the other, what was the fucking point in doing anything at all?

The white of his skin and clothes stood out against the bleeding bed of flowers. It was so white it hurt his eyes, so he closed them and let himself fall into darkness.


End file.
